Playing the Game
by thousanth
Summary: Lazard has secrets, far too many of them. Lazard/Reno.


"For Prompt#4 Lazard/Anyone male - Our dear Director of SOLDIER deserves more love. Explore his possible relationship with someone...unexpected."

A couple of **additional warnings** for occasional crude language, and some violence.

This story assumes that Lazard does not know the identity of his father.

* * *

The first time he meets Reno, it's the clothes he notices first.

"Lazard Deusericus," he says and stretches out a hand politely.

No-one in Shinra dresses as this man does – unkempt, creased, _messy_ - and expects to get away with it. Next to the clean figure that Tseng cuts, the man looks positively scruffy. The sharp scent of cigarette smoke hangs around him, an unpleasant habit Lazard thinks, that does everything to reinforce the image of someone who has just this last minute rolled out of bed.

The hand that swings lazily up to meet his has a strong grip, the skin hotter than expected, and now that he's suddenly a step closer than before Lazard catches another scent on the man. It's metallic and cold, the scent of weaponry and materia.

"Reno," the other man drawls. "Pleased to meet you."

The accent turns the words into something slow and lazy, but Lazard can pick that drawl out from a crowd of a hundred and he knows the hint of mockery he hears in it is genuine. _I know you_, he thinks. _I know what you are_.

"Indeed," he replies, "A genuine pleasure!"

Beside them, Tseng's expression is unreadable, but his gaze is cool and appraising. Nonetheless, Lazard Deusericus has not come so far, so fast without understanding the rules of the game. It's the clothes he notices first, but it's the man's eyes, sly and knowing, that stick with him.

ooOoo

Life is hard in the shadow of Shinra. For a SOLDIER union executive this manifests in the endless dance and shift of company politics. The people, the opposing personalities, the threads of power and the secrets, so many secrets.

When he was a boy, Lazard's goal had been simple. He'd looked up at the towers of Shinra, blazing far above and he'd made his promises to himself and the gods, but mostly for his mother. Power, success, _vengeance_.

These days he can speak openly of such things, except perhaps vengeance, because his vengeance is aimed in the wrong direction and if the Company were ever to suspect that then they'd cut him loose or leave him dead or perhaps worse.

Few people know where Lazard Deusericus comes from. Fewer still know that the smartly dressed figure he cuts – neat, clean, ordered – or the precise, clipped beauty of his accent, is all that he's never been. A secret, _his_ secret – one of many.

Tseng smiles at him from across the desk and slides a data chip his way. Business as usual, the passing of messages too important to be entrusted to anyone but the coldest hearted killer. Lazard returns the smile and picks up the little crystal package of secrets, adding it to all the others he controls.

"Reno may come in my place from time to time," Tseng says.

"He's new," Lazard offers politely, sliding the data chip into its reader.

"You can rely on him," is the reply.

"Of course," Lazard smiles. "He's your student after all."

Tseng's expression does not change, but something in the Turk's eyes lets Lazard know he's hit a sore spot. Or a bone of contention. Or, more likely, another half-truth.

"Of course," is all he says.

ooOoo

They say that home is where the heart is. If that's the case then Lazard must begin to question when it was he lost his heart. Was it with the death of his mother? His induction into the ranks of the Shinra elite? Meeting Genesis? No, this begins to smack of melodrama, even to him. Genesis has always been a means to an end and for that he feels no shame.

These days he has an apartment in the upmarket section of the plate, and for those times when he no longer feels the need to return home there's always the small suite of meeting rooms, particularly 56-A124 where the couch is slightly battered and therefore far more comfortable. But home was not always neon lights and smooth roads, fixtures and fittings all new and not a scratch on them. Home used to be a single room apartment in the slums where the walls radiated cold in the winter and held in the heat in the summer. And it's to this place that he comes from time to time, back to the memories and the seed of his vengeance and the secrets, layered one over another.

Halfway along the road that leads to his old home, he becomes aware that someone is watching gun at his hip is a reassurance, but Lazard has no illusions as to the extent of his abilities. Although he has not dressed to stand out someone here has read him for what he is.

He turns left down a side-street, the memories of a youth spent playing amongst these tumbledown passages lending him a familiarity with the path that will prove invaluable. He takes another left, then a right, then a short cut across a courtyard hung with brightly coloured washing and the scent of soap. He slides down an alley between a metalworkers and a bakery, catching the odd mixture of bread and machine oil on the back of his tongue.

He turns west, takes the short cut that will lead him back out towards the main thoroughfare and comes face to face with a dead end. Times it seems, have changed after all.

With a soft curse he turns to face the mouth of the alley he's just vacated, putting his back to the small courtyard in which he's ended up. The alley is empty, the brighter light of the street at the opposite end devoid of a figure following him. And yet the feeling of being watched is intense. For a moment he considers trying one of the two doors that lead into the buildings on either side, then discards the idea at the sight of the heavy chains that bind them.

The courtyard is quiet, the buildings rising up on all sides some four unscalable storeys tall. In the distance he can hear the buzz and cries of the marketplace. "I know you're there," he says into the empty air.

There is no reply and Lazard waits for ten seconds, twenty. A full minute. All around him is still and slowly his hand eases away from beneath his jacket where it has been resting on the butt of his gun. He flicks a glance over his shoulder, up each wall to the balconies that ring the courtyard. All of them empty.

After another moment he leaves, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. No-one stops him and no-one even looks in his direction. The scent of cigarette smoke follows him all the way home.

ooOoo

If nothing else, the incident encourages in him a sense of self-preservation that he has let slip recently. As soon as he is able he books himself a room on the training range and takes himself shooting. He picks a time when the room is completely empty, devoid of soldiers and SOLDIERs alike, and locks the door behind him. Half an hour into his shooting session he realises that he is not alone.

"I can smell your cigarettes," he murmurs, lowering his gun to peer down the range at the distant target. Four holes pierce the paper in a loose group some distance below the centre.

"Yeah? How's about that."

"This is a no-smoking zone," Lazard replies mildly.

"You don't say? Hey, you need to loosen up your shoulder when you fire, you get all tense and it's pulling your aim off. You're constant though, that's good."

"Thank you," Lazard says, and laying down the weapon, turns to face the other man.

Reno leans on the back wall of the range, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching him from behind the straggles of his unruly fringe. "No problem," he replies, and a lazy half-grin pulls at one side of his mouth, something just a little more than a smirk.

Lazard looks him up and down, noting the rumpled suit and the seeming absence of a weapon. He doesn't ask how the Turk got in, or why he has access codes higher than the union exec of SOLDIER – mostly because he knows he wouldn't get a straight answer.

Reno pushes off the wall and moves towards him. Surprisingly, he doesn't swagger and for some reason that makes Lazard's eyebrows go up. He steps aside as the Turk comes level with him, then turns obediently as Reno makes a short, sharp gesture with his hands.

"Yeah, yeah. Pick it up, shoot."

Slowly, Lazard complies. This turn of events is unexpected, but he cannot help the curiosity this young killer, for that is surely what he is, evinces in him. A little self-consciously, he raises the weapon and sights at the target, making himself settle into as perfect a stance as possible. Reno raises a hand and lays it gently, palm down, on his shoulder, exerting the barest touch of pressure. Up this close Lazard can catch the startling green of his eyes behind the veil of his fringe.

"Whenever you're ready," Reno breathes. "Slow, you know? Easy does it."

It strikes Lazard as a strange thing to say, and in such a gentle tone too, but then he knows better than to underestimate a Turk, any Turk. Even this one. Perhaps especially this one.

He fires. The shots group well, and they're closer to the centre of the target, but he's still off by a good eight inches.

"Not bad, yeah?" Reno drawls.

For a long moment Lazard just looks at him, turning his head slightly to examine the other man's profile. Reno glances sideways at him and flicks an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"That was you the other day."

"Me?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

Reno snorts, a smirk pulling at his mouth as he takes the gun from Lazard's hand, reloading it with quick, expert movements. "Yeah, so what if it was?"

"Why?"

The Turk smiles a smile full of teeth and wicked curves. "It's a secret, you know?" he says and raises the weapon.

Six shots crack out before silence falls. Lazard doesn't turn to look, instead he keeps his gaze firmly on the Turk at his side. Reno fires with a nonchalance born of absolute expertise, the shots taken one after another and the space between almost imperceptible. With an amused huff he lays down the gun before looking back at Lazard. "You know how it is," he says and shrugs. Then he turns and saunters out.

Lazard lets him go, and almost, _almost_ returns the wave the Turk throws back over his shoulder. Instead he clenches his fingers and looks back down the length of the range. Six bullets, six holes, dead centre, so close they're almost one.

A secret indeed.

ooOoo

"He comes around here a lot now," Angeal says.

Lazard looks up from the data reader in his hand and meets the SOLDIER's gaze with a smile carefully calculated to disarm. "He's here in the interests of the Company, Angeal. There's no need for concern."

It has taken some time and what obviously amounts to a great deal of introspection and private consideration before Angeal has found himself able to voice his concerns in person like this. Lazard knows the signs of a reluctant warrior clumsily shambling around the edges of a difficult political issue, and a Turk hanging around in SOLDIER territory is most certainly that.

"I'm not...concerned, Lazard. I'm simply interested," Angeal settles for.

Lazard lays down the data reader with another smile and folds his hands carefully before him on the desk. The SOLDIER seated opposite him is an enormous man, all muscle and brute physical strength, but he's no fool for it. Angeal's mild manner hides a dangerous and astute mind, one that Lazard does not wish to see set against him in earnest.

"It's usually Tseng that mediates between our departments," Lazard says. "He has other business to which he must attend and so Reno has stepped in. That's all it is."

"Tseng never took up guard duty," Angeal says bluntly and suddenly they're at the heart of the issue.

"The Company simply has my safety in mind."

"If your safety is at risk then as a union exec of SOLDIER you have the right to the appropriate protection, and _we_ have the right to information on the threat."

Lazard can read stubbornness and simple, plain earnestness in the other man's expression. For Angeal, the protection of his superiors is a matter not only of loyalty, but of honour too. Very predictable, Lazard thinks. Good dog. "I understand your concerns," he begins, but Angeal cuts him off, a rare frown of belligerence on his features.

"He's a Turk."

Lazard pauses and then straightens slowly. "And you're a SOLDIER," he replies coolly. The warning is implicit in his tone, and Angeal's face smooths to an unreadable blankness.

"Of course, I apologise for assuming."

Assuming what? Lazard thinks to himself, but instead he lets his cold expression warm to a small smile. "I understand," he says. "Why don't we take a look at today's training regime?"

Angeal nods stiffly, and they return to their work.

ooOoo

In general, Lazard drinks alone. It's not a statement, or even much of a choice, simply that the bars he frequents for his relaxation are chosen to keep him from having to interact with the upper echelons of Shinra society. Drinking with work colleagues is a dangerous game and there's nothing relaxing about it at all. Not to one such as he at any rate.

And so he's here in a bar somewhere on the edge of down-town, sitting quietly at the table in the corner that they always save for him, drinking whiskey. He likes whiskey – a small liberty he takes that fits in with the finely tailored suit and fashionable manicure, but which has nothing to do with either of them as far as he's concerned. Good whiskey is good whiskey and should be divorced from the politics of the mundane world.

"This seat taken?"

Lazard did not even see the other man arrive, and he looks up, startled, knowing already who it is. Reno has seated himself before he even has a chance to reply, kicking out a chair and swinging his lanky body into it as though this is an old haunt of his – something Lazard knows for a fact is not the case.

"Please," he murmurs, "Do join me."

"Thanks."

In the dull glow of the bar's lighting, Reno's face is a mix of planes and angles, sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes peering out from beneath his unruly hair. He smells of nothing, not even cigarettes this time, or maybe that's just because Lazard lacks the skill to pick the scent out from the background smog of the room.

"This is an unusual pleasure," he says mildly, and watches as the Turk shrugs.

"I wanted to talk to you," Reno says. "You mind?" He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, holding them up. Lazard smiles and makes an accommodating gesture with his hands, knowing that this Turk is unlikely to refrain even if he were to indicate to the contrary.

"Heh," Reno says, blowing smoke into the air, face turned away to avoid breathing smoke into Lazard's own. "This place is pretty low market for a guy like you, isn't it?"

Lazard smiles and raises his eyebrows, leaning back in his seat. "It has a certain charm to it."

Reno is looking sideways across the table at him, head tilted, his lips parted in anticipation of the response. "You arrogant bastard," he says, teeth flashing in a grin as he shakes his head and flicks ash from his cigarette into the ash tray.

"You are _very_ rude," Lazard says in a low voice, but the smile on his lips never falters. "Does Tseng know you treat your superiors in this way?"

Reno laughs and turns towards him, leaning both forearms on the table. "You're not my superior, SOLDIER's boy. Or should I say...?"

He leaves the rest of the sentence hanging and the smile on Lazard's lips turns cold. He straightens in his chair then leans forward across the table too, mirroring the Turk's posture. "You should say far less than you do, and have a care in what you do let slip. That would be my advice as SOLDIER union executive at any rate."

Reno gives a long, low hum of mock fear and the teasing, cheeky grin stretches his lips again, pulling the twin scars on his cheeks tight with the movement. "Is that your professional opinion then?"

"It is."

"You want to hear mine?"

Lazard cocks an eyebrow, his smile brittle. "Not really, but I'm certain that matters not a bit to you."

"Good call," Reno stubs his cigarette out and then leans forward conspiratorially across the table. "In about six seconds I'm going to ask you to trust me and get down beneath the table. I need you to move fast, do what I say and stay the hell out of the way. Got it, yeah? Good. Nice suit by the way. Classy."

"Thank you," Lazard breathes in automatic response. He tries not to tense, but even with his standard combat and emergency situation training he can feel his pulse spike. When he moves three seconds later, Reno is faster than Lazard can see.

"Down, now!"

Lazard ducks and Reno goes with him, pulling the edge of the table down hard so that it tips and turns onto its side, shielding the SOLDIER exec. Lazard crouches, fumbling for his gun and hearing the sound of gunshots ring out - once, twice - in quick succession. All around people are yelling and there's the crash of glass breaking and customers diving for cover.

"Ah, you bastard."

He hears Reno curse just as he brings his own gun up, and then a single gunshot rings out, accompanied by the shocked outcry of the rest of the clientèle. For a long moment there's silence and then the soft pad of footsteps approaching. Lazard tenses and brings his gun around as a figure leans on the edge of the table, looking down on him.

"You're good, come on," Reno drawls, gesturing at him to get up. He has a pistol in the hand he's using to beckon to Lazard and the SOLDIER exec can't help but raise an eyebrow at the casual disregard for gun etiquette. Nonetheless, it appears this man has just done...something...to help him. Probably.

"What was that?" he asks, rising to his feet as Reno grunts and tips the heavy table back on to all four legs.

"Terrorists. Finish your drink, let's go."

"My drink is on the floor," Lazard says wryly, looking around at the shattered glass littering the carpet where the glass booth partitions have been shot out. People are staring at him, but mostly at Reno, with expressions of mixed fear and apprehension. The doorway is already filling with smartly dressed Turk operatives, toting guns and cool expressions. They move towards the bodies of two people lying crumpled on the floor, quickly shooing away concerned patrons, and setting up a cordon of dark suits and gun muzzles.

"Oh well, bring the bottle then," Reno replies. "Let's move."

Wordlessly, Lazard obeys. In the doorway they meet Tseng, who nods to him and ignores the sloppy salute Reno sends his way.

"I'm sorry you had to get involved in this, sir," he says. "An unfortunate confluence of people."

"Wrong place, wrong time," Lazard says. "Nonetheless, no harm done. I'm sure you'll have an explanation for me in the morning."

The words are cardboard cut-outs of politeness spoken to cover the severe rattling of his nerves and the adrenaline that still courses through his body. Over Tseng's shoulder he catches Reno's eye. The other Turk is smirking, his expression amused and with that hint of cynicism with which Lazard has come to associate with him. There are many things he wants to say to this disrespectful guardian he appears to have acquired, but now is neither the time nor the place. Tomorrow he intends to have answers for all of this, but until then.

"Reno will escort you wherever you wish to go," Tseng says cordially.

In the background Reno flashes him a grin. Lazard thanks Tseng, but keeps his eyes on the young man. They leave together and even out in the street, Lazard can feel Tseng still watching him.

ooOoo

Answers at Shinra are in short supply. Questions are what the Company thrives on. Without questions there could be no innovation, no striving to achieve, no glorious future. The trick is in knowing which ones are the appropriate ones. Such a meteoric rise through the ranks as that which Lazard has enjoyed means he has a certain knack for knowing who to ask, what to say and which secrets must be left in peace. Even so, all he's able to turn up the next day regarding the incident of the previous evening does not satisfy his curiosity.

Reno had accompanied him home, but Lazard had driven them both. The Turk had rolled down the window and leaned his arm out the side, cigarette in hand, trailing smoke all the way back to the stylish apartment in which Lazard lives. Briefly, the union exec had wondered if he was going to have to push to get the other man to leave him, but Reno had simply hopped out of the car at the entrance to the parking lot and gone on his way with another of those backwards waves of his.

Over the next few days Lazard pulls every string he can in order to find some answers, but everything he turns up points in the direction of a simple case of "Wrong place, wrong time." That in itself is by far enough to make him suspicious. Someone, somewhere is holding something over his head, a secret that hangs like a blade, making the back of his neck tense in anticipation of the blow.

The attention of the Turks is not in itself a bad thing. The Shinra black ops team is often sent out where the unsubtle presence of a SOLDIER guard is entirely inappropriate. The question is, why does he appear to have picked up such an attentive tail? The answer to that is something that not even Lazard, with his intricate net of contacts, can uncover.

Displeased and not a little bit uncomfortable, he settles back into his routine of organisation, encouragement and minutiae, ever watchful for some clue as to just who is watching him so closely in return, and why.

ooOoo

"This is somewhat unusual."

The lanky figure leaning in the doorway to Lazard's office shrugs and holds up a data chip between two long fingers. "Brought you a present."

"I assume this cannot wait for normal office hours?" Lazard replies with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't work a 9 till 5," Reno shrugs, and saunters across the room to toss the data chip onto Lazard's desk. "Could have waited for tomorrow, figured you'd still be here anyway, so I might as well bring it to you now, yeah?"

Slowly, Lazard picks up the data chip, tapping the edge of it with one perfectly manicured nail. "You would know," he says. After all, Reno appears to be the one that has been assigned to watch him and Lazard's schedule is hardly a corporate secret.

In response, the Turk just grins and flops down on the couch by the door. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Yes," says Lazard, slotting the data chip into its reader. The Turk shrugs and puts the packet of cigarettes back into his pocket.

"Whatever you say."

Lazard keeps one eye on him as his screen is filled with a set of documents – they are truly mundane and not at all worthy of a midnight delivery. Reno has lain his head back across the back of the couch, legs stretched out before him, one arm draped out to the side. He appears to be staring up at the ceiling – hardly the picture of a guard dog anticipating an attack.

"Why are you here, Reno?" Lazard asks softly, tapping his confirmation codes into the keyboard.

"Figured you could use some company."

"How so?"

"Oh, I dunno. Must get boring around all these SOLDIER boys. All that testosterone. All those big-eyed kids dedicated to Company ideals without even knowing what the damned Company even does."

For just a fraction of a second, the rhythm of Lazard's typing falters. He takes a moment to finish his sentence then slowly locks down the console before turning his full attention on the Turk. "That's hardly the attitude of a dedicated employee," he murmurs, and Reno snorts.

Lazard Deusericus is no fool. He's been a part of Shinra politics for long enough to know when someone is trying to gain his trust. There doesn't always have to be a reason behind it, not immediately anyway, and perhaps not more than simply in case one day the link comes in handy. Reno could be here to entrap him, or to monitor him, or perhaps some combination of both, and that's fine, because Lazard knows that's what he's up to.

Smiling, Lazard says, "I've had enough of this office for one day. I think I'll call it a night."

Across the room, Reno shrugs, pushes himself to his feet and heads for the door.

"See ya round, boss."

Surprised, Lazard leans back in his chair and watches the other man leave. The door has closed behind him quickly enough that there is hardly even time to reply. The union exec is left staring after him in the silence of his once more empty office.

"...good night, Reno."

ooOoo

Reno insinuates himself into Lazard's routine as though this is how it has always been. A ghost presence somewhere up on the rooftops, cigarette smoke on the breeze or green eyes half-glimpsed through the crowd. More often than not, Reno is a shadow, keeping watch from the sidelines, seldom seen except by the SOLDIERs, who turn their heads and stare when Lazard can see nothing but a crowd or an empty street.

Angeal scowls, Genesis is too distant to be concerned by such things and Sephiroth simply smiles a strange, soft, half-smile that's all the more dangerous for its sweetness. There's an uneasy relationship between SOLDIERs and Turks, and Reno's presence unsettles them. They dislike the persistent shadow of his proximity during the day, and Lazard does not tell them of the times out of hours when he sees him too. They don't need to know that some nights he's no longer alone in the bar, because now occasionally there's a young man sat with him, all cigarettes and cynicism.

Reno is surprisingly good company. He's amusing, sarcastic, irreverent, and Lazard finds it relaxing to allow him to play off of the cool exterior which he maintains against the world. He knows full well of course that they're playing a game. A little bit of information has come his way along his own web of contacts that's let him know something has Tseng unsettled. Some whispers say terrorists, others predictably, say Hojo. That's something Lazard can believe, but that's the easy answer and he's learned over the years to take nothing at face value within Shinra.

Tseng thinks he needs guarding, or watching, and for all the assumption it implies, all the secrets that are not being revealed to him, somehow it settles him. Behind the crisp suit and the stylish cut of his hair, Lazard has a will of steel and plenty of secrets of his own. Calmly, he watches and waits for someone to misstep.

ooOoo

Three months later, that misstep is almost his own.

Lazard doesn't do being ill. He's a high-ranked Shinra exec and as such has access to the best of medical care and choicest of stimulants. Illness is something that happens to other people. Nonetheless, it is also what happens to him one morning at the beginning of the working week. The nurse takes one look at him and shakes his head, issuing an on-the-spot advice note that Lazard return home and rest himself. Flu, or some such, he is told and home is where he, gratefully, returns.

Lazard is not accustomed to being sick. This fever, these chills, this awful nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach that spreads throughout his entire body and leaves him feeling as though his legs will give out, is not even close to being tolerable. There's too much to do, too much counting on him being there, offering advice, keeping a check on matters. Genesis, predictably, does not understand what is wrong with him and refuses to speak to him after a brief initial contact. Weakness of any form terrifies the man, although he does his best to conceal his fear with a thin veneer of politely checked disgust. For his part, Lazard can hardly argue.

And so, he has retired to his bed to sleep uncomfortably amidst screwed up sheets, sweat-soaked and plagued by the constant rebellious threats of his stomach. The room is too hot, then too cold and everything about him aches. The sweat he can taste on his top lip is sour and disgusting.

"You look like crap."

When Lazard jumps, his body jerking sharply at the unexpected voice, it hurts every one of his muscles like a vicious cramp.

"How the shit did you get in here?"

The words are startled out of him, crude and with all defences dropped at he looks up at Reno, looking down at him, thin eyebrows arched.

"Door," says Reno, and holds something over him that glows a pale, beautiful green. Lazard recognises materia, but through the befuddlement of illness cannot possibly fathom the reason for Reno having it. Materia is military-grade equipment and not for casual use. Not even for high-ranked employees such as himself.

"Side-effects," he says, shaking his head in negation and a vain attempt to clear his thoughts.

"Nah," says Reno. "You've got more chance of being run over by the President than you have of dying from this thing. Well, in the grand scheme of things if you get what I mean, yeah?"

Lazard feels the cool wash of the spell pass over him and shivers a little at its touch. For a moment the scent of flowers touches the air and is gone. "What are you-?" _What spell is that?_ he means, but his mouth will not form the correct words. Reno replies with a "hmm" then puts the materia away. He straightens, looking down at Lazard and forcing him to blink back up at him.

"You'll live."

For a second Lazard just glares at him. The man has clearly broken in, and has no right whatsoever to be in here like this. And as for what he just did – Lazard has no real experience in materia save for having seen his SOLDIERs use it and authorised its use in operations. Regardless, he knows a healing spell when he sees one, even if it hasn't appeared to have had any effect on the way he feels.

"Get out of my house," he snaps, outrage and irritability brought on by illness robbing him of his usual poise.

"You sure you don't want some chicken soup? I make a mean chick-"

"Get. Out."

Something else passes behind the outward cover of cheer that Reno is wearing, something dark and subtle that Lazard cannot read, gone before he can even be certain it was there. "Whatever you say..."

It takes all of Lazard's strength to pull himself to his feet and totter after Reno, but by the time he's made it into the lounge, the front door is already slamming closed behind the Turk. Lazard glares at its closed surface, relocks it, then, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, turns to go back to bed.

There's a small paper bag on the dining room table. Cautiously, he unrolls the curled mouth of it and peers inside. Tins of chicken broth. Something that looks like painkillers, cheap but effective. For a long time he stares into the bag and then, feeling as though he's closer to throwing up than he has been all day, he staggers to the bathroom and lets himself forget about Reno.

ooOoo

Reno thinks the best bit about being assigned to watch Lazard is all the interesting places they don't go. So he tells Lazard one evening as they sit in the corner of the usual bar, drinking the usual poisons and watching the rest of the world go by.

"If you're so bored by this assignment, why don't you ask for a transfer?" Lazard asks mildly. "I'm sure Tseng would be willing to listen."

"You obviously don't know Tseng all that well."

"You'd be surprised."

Reno leans back in his chair, tilting it back slightly on two legs and looking askance at Lazard. Smoke curls up from the cigarette held loosely between his fingers and he smells of the spirits he's been drinking. The collar of his shirt is open, the tie removed and stuffed somewhere into his jacket. In comparison, Lazard is, as usual, impeccably dressed.

"You amaze me, you know?" Reno says. Lazard raises an eyebrow in response.

"Yeah, you really do. I mean, look at you. You dress like a killer but can barely use a gun. Not that you can't kill, I mean, you've got an army of SOLDIERs to command, haven't you? I don't think you're even much older than me – two years, three, I dunno. And yet look where you are. You've got armies at your beck and call, and you fight with words like, I don't know...like whatever it is you do." Reno waves his hand in the air when words fail him, smoke coiling and twisting as he breaks the chain of its spiral with his fingers.

"You're drunk," Lazard says softly.

"No, I'm really not," Reno replies and looks him straight in the eye.

In the warm glow of the bar's lighting, he looks pale and hard. Not scruffy but _wild_ – green-eyed and very dangerous. Lazard's seen that look before, knows it's nothing that he should have anything to do with any more – the slums are long gone for him. That life, with its scraping by, its sacrifices, its dirty, filthy pain is gone. Corporate whore, slave to a payroll, trapped without any hope of escape. This man encapsulates everything he never wanted to be.

"Come home with me," he says.

Reno laughs softly, a grin pulling at his lips as he looks away, then down, and then back at Lazard. Seeing that the other man is quite serious, the grin freezes and he pauses. "You're serious, aren't you?" he asks slowly. Lazard does not reply.

"Shiva on ice," Reno laughs, and stubs out his cigarette.

ooOoo

Nothing changes.

Lazard takes Reno back to his apartment and this time the Turk doesn't need to jimmy the lock in order to gain entry. He's still wary though, full of sideways looks and a cautious poise that says he's ready to run or admit he's been fooled at a moment's notice. The nerves evaporate and desire quickly takes over as Lazard shows that he is true to his implied intentions.

He takes Reno to his bed, stripping off clothes and tangling his fingers in the long strands of the other man's hair, skin on skin in a rush of something held in check for too long. They tangle together on the bed, their first union brief and full of the clumsy fire of the overeager. Later, they take it more slowly, savouring each other's bodies and reactions, and testing the limits of each. Afterwards, Reno pulls out his cigarettes and Lazard snatches the packet from his fingers and throws it in the bin. There's a brief, angry outcry which is brought to a diplomatic conclusion by the skilled and knowing application of Lazard's mouth.

Even so, nothing changes. The days and weeks pass and now where sometimes Lazard will catch a glimpse of Reno shadowing him in the street, or accept data chips from him in the office while Angeal frowns in the background, or meet up with him in a bar, other times they go home together too and enjoy a far more intimate encounter. Of course, Lazard knows full well what he's let into his bed – a man that's been set to watch him, to protect him – someone with whom he really ought to have a far more professional relationship. And yet.

There are things he cannot ask the Turk, and others that he simply won't. Reno obliges him by not talking about anything that could possibly be construed as giving the game away, and Lazard pretends that he doesn't realise that all this could simply be part of the ploy. After all, he's playing along, isn't he?

Secrets, secrets, secrets, and only half-answers which lead to nothing. Lazard smiles and continues to play the game.

ooOoo

"Sir!"

He doesn't even see Reno shoot. What he sees is the dirty, flattened round of someone's chewing gum pounded into the pavement by hundreds of pairs of feet as another of the dark-suited Turks barrels into him and shoves him to the ground. The man is huge and he covers Lazard's body with his own while all around them is the whickering sound of bullets hitting the pavement.

Over the noise there's a sudden crack and flash of light and sound, and then a scream. He hears Reno swear and the sound of running feet, and then the Turk covering him hauls him to his feet and shoves him hard in the back. "Please run now, sir," he says calmly, and Lazard obeys.

They are almost to cover when a group of figures emerges from the alley ahead of them. They're dressed in dark clothing with bandanas bearing symbols Lazard does not recognise. The Turk beside him opens fire immediately, dropping two of the figures at once, but one more are still coming. Lazard has no gun on him, this is an upmarket area of town and he should have been safe. Old combat routines drilled into him by Angeal surface sluggishly as a woman charges him, her sword held high. "Shinra!" she screams as she swings her weapon up in both hands. She is so close to him that he can see the colour of her eyes, a strange mix of hazel and grey. Briefly, he wonders why she's calling the name of the Company as her battlecry. Then the air explodes with light and the woman's body goes rigid, caged suddenly in a network of crawling lightning spikes that writhe across her body. The moment seems to last an age and then she falls, her hair and body smoking from the blast. Lazard watches as she hits the ground in a crumpled heap, the white and yellow of her bandana knocked loose by the impact and slipping up across her forehead in a strange sweat-stiffened arc.

"Lazard."

He turns to the left as someone wraps their fingers around his upper arm and pulls to get his attention. He stares into Reno's eyes, nodding in acknowledgement of the assessment of his wits that the Turk is clearly making. "I'm fine, let's go."

Flanked on either side by the two Turks, Lazard is hustled away to safety.

ooOoo

Two days after the attempt on his life, Lazard finally uncovers the truth.

He sits in his office, his fingers very slowly tracing patterns on the smooth surface of his desk and stares at the nameplate placed carefully before him.

_Lazard Shinra_, it should say, but does not.

Suddenly, perfectly, every piece falls into place.

ooOoo

"Tell me now," he says into the smoke and gloom of the bar. "Confirm it for me. I want to hear you say it."

Reno looks away, his gaze falling on the tabletops and the reflection of the coloured lights in the unclaimed empties that litter their surfaces. It's quiet tonight, barely anyone in here. "Don't know what you want me to say."

Lazard is smiling, but it's a cold, knife-edge smile that is far from friendly and has nothing at all to do with amusement. He brushes the palm of one hand across the tabletop to clear away imaginary crumbs and then leans his elbows on the wood, placing his chin to rest on the back of his knuckles. Reno glances sideways at him, a placatory smile on his lips. The expression dies quickly when he sees the ice in Lazard's eyes.

"I'm a Turk," he says, and suddenly the smile on his face is a smirk, as sharp as Lazard's own.

"Just playing the game," the union exec says softly.

Reno snorts and shrugs. "You know me, yeah?" he replies. "It's all in a day's work."

Carefully mirroring Lazard's posture, Reno turns his body to face him and places both elbows on the table, his chin on his knuckles, the smoke from the cigarette caught between his fingertips coiling up past his cheek. He smirks for the other man, all mockery and teasing laughter and wicked, sly fun. Lazard is having none of it, not any more.

"Go away, Reno," he says firmly.

For a split-second the Turk's expression cracks and the barest hint of hurt flickers behind his eyes. But then all at once the mask is back in place and the threat of weakness is concealed behind the veil of mocking cynicism that normally wards his gaze. It seems for a moment as though he will speak, and then he snorts sharply and reaches across to the middle of the table to slowly, firmly stub out his cigarette in the ashtray.

Lazard does not take his eyes from the Turk's, even as Reno pushes himself to his feet, retrieves his jacket from the back of the chair and slings it over one shoulder. So many secrets, Lazard thinks, and so many players in this grand game of ours. But I've worked you out now, I know what you want from me and you can't have it.

"See you round, boss," Reno says.

Secrets, secrets, secrets. He is drowning in them, head spinning, clinging on to sanity by the tips of his fingers as the speed of his headlong rush forward threatens to throw him off.

"I doubt that," he replies.

Reno laughs, and walks away. He raises one hand in the air and waves once over his shoulder, and then the door into the street swings closed, and he's gone.


End file.
